Happy-Go-Lucky
by emily.down
Summary: Sherlock Holmes wasn't prepared for Molly Hooper. Scratch that, Sherlock Holmes is never prepared for Molly Hooper. Slightly AU.
1. Chapter 1

_so I've been trying to write this story for quite some time. It was always in my head in one form or another. Molly Hooper is a goddess and my spirit animal and she just won't leave me alone. So I am going to keep writing about her._

_hope you enjoy :) r&r if you can.  
_

* * *

I.

There are certain people in this world with whom you know, as soon as you meet them, you will never be able to interact on a normal level. They are too detached from your universe. Too different. Their mere presence alienates you.

This was the case with the new pathologist, Doctor Molly Hooper.

Sherlock Holmes felt in her company the same kind of unpleasant chill he experienced whenever Mycroft Holmes happened to visit.

He could not explain it. The only thing those two shared in common was the letter "M". So really, there was no logical reason for Sherlock to feel this way.

But he did.

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes. You'll figure it out soon enough. You always do."

She was eating a sandwich, sitting at the desk behind him, reading what appeared to be another tacky historical romance. And she was smiling in that far-off way of hers that meant her mind was elsewhere.

Her mind was _always_ elsewhere.

Sherlock frowned, wrinkling his nose.

"There's no need for your input, Doctor Hooper," he replied coolly, trying not to look up from his current experiment.

She simply shrugged her shoulders and continued eating happily.

That was another thing. Nothing ever fazed her. Molly Hooper was the most cheerful, optimistic and happy-go-lucky pathologist, _nay_, human being, he had ever met.

For weeks on end, whenever he was on a break from the cases, he watched for a change in her mood, a ripple of something new in her expression. It was a meaningless occupation he indulged in from time to time.

The analysis had not proven very comprehensive. The only thing he could discern for sure was that Molly Hooper _did_ get sad sometimes, but the only indication of that were slowness in movement and an imperceptible shadow around her eyes.

Other than that, she was her usual indefatigable, chipper self.

Today made no exception.

"Could you stop chewing? You are distracting me," he said at one point, barely able to contain a sigh. The research was going nowhere. And the room felt too small with her in there as well.

Molly looked up from the novel, crumbs falling off her lower lip. She smiled and stuffed the rest of the sandwich in her mouth.

"I'm going to go get some coffee. Want some?"

"Black. Two sugars."

"_Righto_. Black, two sugars, coming right up."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. She had a habit of talking silly nonsense like that. No matter how many times he'd told her to cease, she just kept at it.

* * *

Nearly an hour passed and neither Doctor Hooper, nor the coffee made any appearance.

Sherlock continued his work, but at the back of his head he felt a nagging issue pestering him. _Where_ was she? Had she completely forgotten about him (and his coffee)?

He stopped for a moment and looked around the laboratory.

No, she was nowhere in sight. He thought he might have accidentally missed her, being so engrossed in his research as he was.

He sighed. She was like a child. She had probably forgotten all about him. She was prone to doing that, which was an unusual experience for him, since all his life people had revolved around him and not the other way around.

Five minutes later, the doors banged open and Molly Hooper finally came in, balancing two heavy bags in her hands.

Sherlock, decidedly cross with her, did not wish to give her the satisfaction of knowing he had actually bothered about her absence, so he stubbornly kept his eyes on the Petri dish, refusing to even acknowledge her presence.

He could hear Molly's soft steps across the room.

She dumped one bag on the desk and the other one on the chair next to him.

"So I went to get drinks, but then I thought, we're going to be here a while so I might as well get some food too. Yours is Chinese takeout. Mine's unhealthy junk food. But look! Coffee!"

With that, she cheerfully placed a tall cup with the words "ONLY CONS. DETECTIVE IN THE WORLD" scribbled in red marker right under his nose.

"They didn't have enough space to write CONSULTING, I'm afraid."

Sherlock looked up angrily.

"You spent an hour on a hunt for food?"

Molly chuckled, looking down. "Okay, guilty as charged. I chatted up with Stamford on the way back. He is thinking of finding you a flat mate, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock did not know what made him angrier; the fact that she was talking about his own affairs as if it was common knowledge or the way she called him _Mr. Holmes. _

No, it was the _cup_. He had never seen anything more ridiculous.

"What sort of nonsense is this? Remove this cup instantly and find me a decent one if you wish to be of actual service. And get rid of the food, too. I have no need for it and it's starting to develop a smell. Also, Stamford has no business discussing my personal concerns with a fellow Doctor."

"Ah, we could swap, but I had them write GREATEST PATHOLOGIST ALIVE on mine," Molly replied, showing him her own cup. "See?"

Sherlock drew a tired breath and turned away from her.

"Never _mind_. Just let me work in peace. We will sort out this mess later."

* * *

Three hours later, they were sitting in Molly's office and Sherlock was pecking at his food while typing on his laptop furiously. He stopped to take a sip of coffee, but resumed his speed, scowling at the writing on the cup.

Molly was standing right across from him, eating and filling out a study case.

Her phone suddenly buzzed.

She looked up and grinned.

"Stamford texted me. Said he found you a potential roomie already. He's meeting up with him tomorrow."

Sherlock groaned.

"I thought I told you that's none of your business. And why is Stamford texting _you_ with such information?"

"Well, because he made me the offer too."

Sherlock looked up from his laptop.

"He what?!"

"He asked me whether I'd be interested. Told me you were the right sort of chap and wouldn't care if you lived with a man or a woman. I said it would be nice but I had to decline."

Sherlock stared at her for a moment, as if what she had just told him had not processed entirely.

"Um, it's not personal, Mr. Holmes. But I barely know you and I like my apartment just fine."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, for God's Sake, stop calling me that! It's _Sherlock_. And I would rather live in that broom cupboard down the hall than share a living space with an obese cat and her rather dense owner."

"How did you know about my –"

"_Please_."

"He's only a bit chubby. Oh wait! You haven't seen him."

She suddenly lunged across her desk, shoving her phone in Sherlock's face.

"His name's Toby. I found him in an alley one night. Isn't he adorable?"

Sherlock didn't manage to push her hand away quick enough and he was graced with the sight of a rotund furry ball in the middle of several blankets on an unkempt bed. The sight was hardly a pleasant one.

"_Charming_," he muttered.

Molly grinned and sat back in her chair, flipping through photos of her beloved cat.

Sherlock could only roll his eyes dramatically.

They both returned to their individual tasks eventually, but the phone kept buzzing from time to time, eliciting disgruntled noises from The Only Consulting Detective In The World.

"Molly," she mumbled, shutting off her phone.

Sherlock peered at her from the corner of his eye.

"You told me to call you Sherlock. You can call me Molly."


	2. Chapter 2

_second chapter! thanks so much for the kind reviews (and to **Guest** too), very happy you're enjoying it so far :) _

_hope the latest addition is just as pleasant.  
_

* * *

II.

As Molly fumbled with the keys to the morgue, Sherlock leant against the doorway, stifling a great sigh. He was already pressed for time; every second wasted felt like years he could have spent solving the client's alibi.

"Do make haste for the sake of my withering patience, Molly."

"Sorry! I'm so uncoordinated this morning," she exclaimed in a huff, pulling her pony-tail back and giving him an apologetic grin. "Word of advice, don't ever plan a Glee marathon in the middle of the week. It's pretty exhausting."

Sherlock winced at the absurdity of her statement, but decided to ignore it. He usually filtered out any unnecessary information, including small talk.

It was too bad that _her_ particular brand of small talk was too grating to be tuned out completely.

Once inside, though, Molly wasted no time before she pulled out the body he needed. She was fast on her feet. If you stood back and watched her move across the room, you would get dizzy.

"How fresh?" he asked as he unzipped the body bag.

"Just in. 67, natural causes. Used to work here," Molly offered quickly.

"I knew him, he was nice," she added with a lingering smile. "This is for a case, isn't it? Not just experiments?"

"Case. I need to inflict damage on the skin tissues. Well, enough damage to validate my theory," he mumbled, already lost in thought. "A man's alibi depends on it."

"A man's alibi? That sounds pretty serious. Need any help?"

"I suppose a ruler will have to do for now. Will get tedious after a while, though. Not enough scarring," he rambled on, ignoring her.

He took out a long ruler from his coat pocket and slid his fingers down its length, testing its strength.

Without any preliminary warnings, he suddenly dropped it on the dead flesh with an audible flick.

Molly almost flinched.

Sherlock dropped it a second time, more vigorously. Then a third.

"_Ouch_. Poor Johnson. He's being flogged like a schoolboy," Molly joked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective frowned as he inspected the corpse closely. "Not very satisfactory, I'm afraid. This calls for a different instrument."

Molly scrunched her eyebrows, a sudden idea "cropping" up in her head.

"How about a riding crop? Would that do?"

Sherlock, who had momentarily forgotten she was there, turned towards her, eyebrows considerably raised.

"What?" she asked defensively.

"You've got a riding crop in the morgue?"

The pathologist had a playful glint in her eye. That look was usually reserved for her novels and cat, though.

"Halloween party left-over. One of the students forgot to take it back."

Sherlock bent over the body again, hiding a smirk. "I suppose that _would_ be a vast improvement."

"It's in the changing room somewhere. I'll go fetch it," she replied, already making for the doors.

* * *

"That took longer than necessary, yet _again_. Is that just a habit of yours or is your attention span that short?"

Molly placed the riding crop in his hand, trying desperately to pull back the loose strands of hair.

"It was just really fun walking around with a riding crop, is all," she confessed, in a fit of giggles. "You should've seen David from Neurosurgery. He looked as if he'd seen me naked!"

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, counting backwards from five.

"That's _quite_ enough amusement for one day, Molly. You may leave now. Thank you for the assist - Hang on," he stopped, surveying her face in interest. "You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before."

Molly's cheeks turned very red and she stammered her way through the explanation.

"I just - I refreshed it a bit."

"Yes, I noticed, obviously. _Why?_"

"No reason," she mumbled, trying to seem innocuous about it.

"There is always a reason. Usually a _male_ one."

Molly's blush deepened.

Sherlock wondered whether she cherished the delusional notion that she might make herself more attractive to him by applying some cheap make-up.

"Well, you're going to laugh, but I er, I saw Stamford outside with your potential flat mate. He's sort of cute."

Sherlock's gaped at her for a fraction of a second before he concealed any trace of surprise. He would not allow himself to look stupid on account of such trifles.

"I see. I suppose they'll be up soon. I don't know why you think you are going to meet him, though, as this hardly concerns you."

"I know, I know I'm being nosy, but what's the harm in making a brief appearance? Let's say I come up to bring you some coffee. How about that? I promise I'll keep to myself."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose in annoyance.

"Now why would I agree to such foolish schemes?"

St. Bart's pathologist and his potential flat mate. How utterly stupid.

Molly chewed on her lip in thought.

"Well, you'll need me to tell you what bruises form on his body after you're done with him," she said, pointing at the corpse. "It's why you're beating him to a pulp, isn't it?"

Sherlock smiled, shaking his head.

"Nice try. But you can text me the details. No need to come in person."

"Hmm. Fine, then. You can keep the riding crop, provided you let me bring you coffee. Come on, that sounds reasonably fair. More than fair actually," she offered, giving him one of her winsome smiles.

After what felt like an eternity, Sherlock reluctantly and begrudgingly agreed.

"None of that silly writing on the cup this time!" he called back after her.

* * *

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock asked again, trying to hide the pleasure he derived from John Watson's startled expression.

They all succumbed to it so fast. This one was interesting though. Gullible, but interesting.

Just then, Molly Hooper decided to make her "unexpected" appearance.

Sherlock groaned inwardly as the bubbly pathologist popped her head through the door.

"Brought you some coffee, Sherlock. Oh, hello there! Didn't know you had company. Hi, Stamford!"

She had mercifully brought Sherlock a mug which she dropped in his hand without any warning. It was scalding hot.

Sherlock hissed under his breath.

"Hallo, Molly," Stamford greeted her cheerfully. "This is an old colleague of mine, Doctor John Watson. Doctor Watson, Doctor Molly Hooper, one of our top pathologists."

"A pleasure, I'm sure! It's always fun to meet one of Stamford's old friends. I've seen the pictures. He was a lot less plump in his younger days, wasn't he?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disdain, but John Watson seemed pleasantly surprised by her presence.

"Oh, Molls!" Stamford moaned in distress. "This one's always badmouthing me!"

"That's what you get for introducing me as a pathologist," she joked light-heartedly.

John only smiled, slightly overwhelmed by her energy. He liked her though, Sherlock could tell.

"He's grown a bit round, I'll admit," John mumbled, amused, casting Sherlock a curious glance.

The consulting detective was now back to handling John's phone, but even the Army Doctor could see he was not pleased with Molly's interruption.

Sherlock suddenly cleared his throat, making Molly glance up at him. She was met with such a furious glare that she almost yelped.

"Well, I'd better be off then! The dead wait for no one! It was lovely meeting you, though. Hope you'll come visit again."

With that she threw one last look at Doctor Watson and slipped through the doors.

John was left reeling.

"Well, she's quite something, isn't she?"

"That's our Molly," Stamford said fondly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. That was Molly, all right. An obnoxious, overly-excitable _child_. He should have known better than to make a deal with her. No riding crop was worth this kind of laughable display.

"How do you feel about the violin?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the phone. He was going to pretend nothing had happened. Eventually, John Watson's attention would be focused solely on him.

And he would make sure to keep Molly Hooper away, for future occasions.


End file.
